Chapter Text
Cold wind rushed past Chuuya's body, the chill of the night seeping through the crack in the open door.
As he exited his rundown home, he shivered and wrapped his own arms around his body, least he protected himself of some of the harsh night wind. It was rendered quite useless, so he just zipped his jacket higher and stuffs his hands in the pockets.
He had a set destination, but even so he walked as if he was just taking a casual stroll around the block before going to bed. He knew exactly where he was going, has went there so many times before, so he could allow himself to stare up at the starless sky and wonder how he would feel if he was peering straight into the universe.
Would he find a place for himself there?
He took a turn seemingly at random and came face to face with the rundown wall covered in obscene graffiti that signaled the start of what was quite possibly the worst-off neighborhood in the whole city. Windows cracked or missing, boarded up or messily covered with plastic foil peered down from dirty gray buildings. It was a wonder how they didn't collapse on themselves, cold and ghastly. The graffiti that covered them was the most vibrant thing around, and even then it didn't stray away from blues and greens, maybe with the occasional red to spice things up.
Chuuya walked further, unbothered by the possibility of being mugged or stabbed the next corner he took, shoulders casually relaxed and eyes trained on the ever so slightly cloudy sky. He took the time spent on his way to meditate on his current state and his position in life.
He felt empty, in a detached sort of way, as if he was in a perpetual state of dissociation. His own body moved on autopilot and he couldn't form a coherent string of thoughts, his mind a jumbled amalgamation of words and phrases that made him exhausted. As he walked he felt as if he was spectating someone else that was walking and that he was just an intruder in a random body, like an extra piece that wasn't supposed to be there.
Ah, maybe he was exaggerating a bit, but he was poetic in nature and wallowing in his own sorrow was what the did best.
There was something so otherworldly about feeling bad about yourself and shaping it up to be elegant and artistic. Maybe it was the time spent in France that made him that way.
He decided to anchor his own mind back down on earth and focus on the bumpy road.
A couple more minutes of his silent stroll got him in front of what once used to be a music shop of sorts, all the glass still in its place but most of it covered in the gang graffiti that littered the place. However, the dirty floor and the lack of other decor, save for the scratched up piano in the middle of it all made obvious the passage of time. It must have been about a year since Chuuya came across the shop. At the time it was still running, barely so, and he got to befriending the owner. There wasn't a lot of activity, given the place it was positioned, so the old man let him play the piano whenever Chuuya felt like it. Time spent in the shop compiled in one of the best of Chuuya's days, even if he didn't have many of those himself. Even the annoying voice bubbling up his throat when his emotions got the best of him seemed to simmer down and whisper, rather than shout.
But of course, all good things must come to an end.
The details are a blur. No one knows what really happened. Maybe the old man left, since there was no body to be discovered. Maybe he had been kidnapped and he won't return no more. All Chuuya knows is that he woke up one late night to his cracked phone ringing. When he answered, the voice on the other side left a short message before dying off.
"I'm sorry, but it is time that I go. I leave the piano to you, boy. Take good care of it for me. Goodbye."
He had tried to call back, to leave tens of messages questioning the meaning behind the old man's words, but all he received back was radio silence.
As so, even if the man was no more and the shop lay abandoned at the end of the street, Chuuya made sure the piano remained safe, as safe as he could manage.
It turned out that his simple being there was enough to keep most thugs away for good and the haunting tune of his melodies kept even the toughest of them away from the piano in particular.
No one knew what he'd do if something happened to it. No one wanted to know.
He pushed the squeaky glass door and entered, bringing with him a few stray drafts of air. The litter on the floor swayed a moment or two before settling back into silence.
He sat down on the chair of the piano, gloved hands perched upon the milky white of the keys. He took a few moments to think of a song to play, mind focused on nothing but the smudge of his memories and the familiar tune of someone's voice lulling him to sleep.
His fingers moved on their own, hesitant and still heavy with the dizziness of thought. The first notes were slow and off pace, but soon enough he got used to the feeling of keys pressing down under his deft fingers.
He got lost into the story the notes narrated, lost in a kaleidoscopic haze of memories he wasn't sure he lived, lost in times that might have never passed but which kept him awake on nights the voice behind his throat got too loud to ignore. He let himself loose and swayed with the notes, eyes closed and lips parted.
His fingers slipped on the notes, gaining an off-tune sound that felt too much like a groan of protest. Behind him, the door swang open and then closed, eerily quiet despite the old age.
"Bravo! Such beautiful notes! So talented!" A voice came from the space between the door and Chuuya's back, so he turned his whole body to stare at the intruder.
"Who the fuck are you?" He asked, voice thick and raspy with unuse.
"My, my... You're a lot less polite when you open your mouth..." The man clasped his hands behind his back, walking back and forth along the wall facing the street.
Chuuya took a second to look the man over, trying to eye out the possibilities of having to fight his way out. The man was awkwardly proportioned, too tall and too skinny to be anything but funny. He wore a black trench coat, sleeves folded to reveal bandaged forearms. The same bandages extended from under his white shirt up to his jaw.
"I'm still not as impolite as to bother someone who is quite obviously busy." He retorted back, blue eyes trained on copper ones.
The man grinned, then sat on the floor, head resting on the gray wall. He took out a book from one of the deep pockets of his coat, but it was too dark for Chuuya to figure out the title or the author.
"Do you mind if I stay here while you play? I'm quite fond of your melodies."
Chuuya frowned for a second. What the man said implied that, one, he wasn't going to harm Chuuya and that, two, he had stalked Chuuya enough to grow attached to his songs.
Well, whatever. Chuuya wasn't so much of an asshole as to kick the man out when he obviously meant no harm. And, as life goes, Chuuya felt quite lonely and took an instant liking to the man when he confessed enjoying the pieces he played.
"I might as well, but wouldn't it be nice to introduce ourselves first?" He inquired, one thin brow raised.
"Let's do that after a song or two, I'm afraid I'm quite in the mood for a good reading." The man grinned, raising his book up to his eyes.
Chuuya didn't understand how he could see in the pitch dark.
He scoffed, but turned back to the keys and started playing one of his favorite songs. Seconds melted into minutes as fingers danced on milky white and ebony black and before he knew it, his alarm rang. He had set up one to make sure he wouldn't spend his whole nights awake, lulling over the memories his tunes seemed to unearth in him.
"Well then, that's my que to leave." He sighed, turning back to the man just to find him already staring. "May I know to whom exactly I just gave a free concert?" He inquired as he got up, stretching his stiff back.
"I guess it's only fair. My name is Dazai. Dazai Osamu." The man closed his book with one fluid motion, before getting up from the ground. He clumsily dusted the back of his pants, waiting for a reply.
"I'm Nakahara Chuuya. It's been nice talking to you, but I must really go. See you around or something." Was all that Chuuya said before making for the door and exiting into the empty street.
He failed to catch the whisper of "We will surely see each other." that the man, Dazai, voiced behind him.
When he got home, the clock ticked the minutes to three in the morning, barely 15 left. He didn't bother to change as the exhaustion of several days ran over him in the form of waves of pain and dizziness.
That night he dreamed of lullabies and the empty pages of a book with no name and no writer.